


Heartstrings

by margdean56



Series: Stories of the Hawkfriends [1]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: F/M, Hawkfriends, Recognition, culture clash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many Elfquest fan writers' maiden effort is a Recognition story, and mine was no different.  This one introduced the tribe known as the Hawkfriends, as well as the characters of Kestrel and Starsinger who would be my characters in Fixed Star Holt.  The story was originally published in Issues 2 and 3 of Fixed Star's zine, <i>The Constellation</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartstrings

The hunting had been good. As Kestrel walked homeward along the forested slopes of Hawk Mountain, flickering in and out of the shadows cast by tall, straight pine trunks in the last of the slanting sunrays, she felt inordinately pleased with herself. Two plump grouse dangled from a leather thong slung over the young elf’s shoulder. One bird would have made an ample meal for herself and her family. Two meant the meat could be shared with others of their tribefolk — perhaps Moonrill and Cragspanner, and their son Mist. Mist liked grouse, Kestrel knew, and he never ate enough — though he would say it was because he didn’t want to be weighed down by a full belly. Moonrill would welcome the birds’ mottled brown plumage for her beadwork. Hardly any of the feathers were spoiled. A single arrow for each — Sureflight herself could have done no better. Kestrel felt certain her mother would be pleased her lessons had taken so well.

She came to the edge of a stream and stopped to drink a few handfuls of the chill water. Large rocks jutting from the streambed provided an uneven path for the surefooted, but Kestrel did not bother using them. With an unthinking flex of a mental muscle she lightened her feet and crossed from one bank to the other in a single leap. She was just turning upstream toward home when she heard the sound of shouts, of bodies crashing through the underbrush, of heavy, thudding feet.

Humans! Coming from downslope, and approaching rapidly. Another leap carried the young huntress to the lowest limb of a gnarled fir that leaned over the water. Crouched there, partly screened by the boughs of the tree, she peered toward the noise, frowning. Had the five-fingers so soon forgotten their last lesson? Normally the elves of the Aerie lived in a state of uneasy truce with the neighboring human tribes; neither molested the other as long as territorial boundaries were observed. But every so often some proud or desperate human leader (usually when food was scarce, but not always) would lead a raid against the “mountain demons.” They might occasionally catch a lone elf away from the caves, like Tallpine — Kestrel still missed her kindly uncle — but they could never reach the Aerie itself. The ways were too narrow and steep for their thick, heavy bodies and clumsy feet, and elfin arrows provided a further deterrent. The last raiding party had lost four members to those deadly shafts. Two more had fallen from the crags, while reckless Thunderstone fought their leader hand-to-hand and brained him with his war-hammer. Kestrel shuddered at the memory. Enemies though they were, she didn’t like killing humans. Hunting for food was one thing, but killing other speaking creatures felt wrong to her. Still, if your home was threatened, what could you do?

The humans were close now. Suddenly a slender figure burst from the trees and stumbled down the streambank. Kestrel stared. _That_ was no human! Yet it was not one of her tribefolk. The stranger was clad in green, and his large pointed ears rose from a tangle of fine, pale hair. In the lines of his slim body she could read near-total exhaustion, and she could hear his labored breathing over the chatter of the stream.

The first of the humans appeared, followed by two more. The leader brandished a stone club. The elf gave a low, despairing cry, and after quickly shifting a bundle on his back, made a leap for the nearest stepping stone. The jump was an awkward one and his foot slipped. Arms flailing, he fell sideways into the water, twisting as he fell. His head hit another of the projecting rocks and he lay still.

The human yelled gleefully and brandished his club again. An instant later he yelled again, in pain, and the club fell from a hand transfixed by a brown-feathered arrow. Another arrow snapped the thong that held his topknot in place, scattering bright beads on the ground. A third was already on Kestrel’s string, aimed at a tenderer spot, but it was not needed. The unexpected attack was enough to spook the humans, who knew they were in forbidden territory. Darting frightened glances right and left and jabbering to one another in their guttural tongue, they retreated hastily through the trees. Kestrel wasn’t sure they’d stay away, though, once they got over their surprise. She must act quickly.

She slung her bow across her back and floated down from her perch. The strange elf lay unmoving, but at least his head was above water. She waded into the stream toward him, fighting for balance against the current that pushed and tugged at her calves. Fortunately his ill-executed jump had not carried him far from shore. The projecting rock provided her with support as she bent over him. Her fingers brushed his pale, spray-beaded face. High Ones be praised, he was still breathing.

**Mist!** she sent urgently. **Thunderstone! Galedancer! Dodger! Help me!** Answering mind-touches told her her friends were on their way. Still using the rock for support as the water swirled around them, Kestrel managed to take hold of the unconscious elf under the arms. The wrapped bundle dangled from his shoulder as she lifted him, bumping against her hip. She pushed at it impatiently and found it was light for its size. With some trouble she shifted it to lie across the stranger’s chest. Then, cradling his injured head against her, she dragged him back out of the water. She had just laid his limp, dripping body on the thick moss of the bank when her four friends arrived, hurrying down the mountainside in long bounds.

**Kestrel, what happened? Are you hurt? There’s blood—** Mist’s anxious sending made her glance down. There were red patches on her leather tunic where the stranger’s head had lain.

**Not mine,** she assured Mist. **This strange elf hit his head on a rock. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. We should get him up to the Aerie right away.**

Thunderstone, meanwhile, spotted the dropped club and the beads scattered on the streambank. **Humans!** His sending crackled with rage. **They dare—! Maybe they need another lesson.** He shot a glance along their retreating trail.

**Not now, Thunderstone! We must get the stranger to my father’s cave. He could die while you stand there fulminating against humans!** Kestrel’s sharp sending brought the warrior elf to her side. He lifted the stranger’s slight body in his strong arms.

Dodger picked up the bundle. **What’s this?**

**I don’t know, but I expect he valued it if he’d hold onto it while running for his life,** Kestrel replied. **Bring it along.**

The five elves climbed quickly up the slope in the gathering dusk, keeping a wary eye out behind in case the humans returned. Thunderstone carried the stranger for most of the way, but it took the lifting power of all five to get him up the final cliff face to the cave Kestrel shared with her parents. Her father, the healer Tearsharer, was waiting for them, alerted by his daughter’s sending. Concern deepened the lines in his face as he knelt beside the injured elf and ran his fingers lightly over his skull, but at length he sat back with a sigh of relief.

“His injury is not as serious as it seemed,” he said. “With some help, he should awake by tomorrow’s dawn.”

 

In fact it was a few hours after sunrise when Starsinger awoke. From unconsciousness he had passed into dream, a dream in which he lay on soft grass in starlight with Willowind nestled against him. His fingers ran through her silky black hair, lifted it, watched the stars gleam through the strands. His other hand played a whispering melody on those fine ebon strings, a melody that blended with their voices. Her body was warm against his, so warm — too warm, hot, oh, burning, burning! The black strands fell to ashes across his face, and the song was a scream, and the stink of charred flesh filled his nostrils.

He woke with a shriek. The softness beneath him was not grass but thick furs. Rose-tan rock arched above him instead of sky. The warmth he felt was the morning sun streaming into the cave. What he smelled was nothing more than the aroma of cooking food. Willowind was dead, and he was alive. The mingled sorrow and relief of the realization drew a gasp from him.

“Ah, you are awake, young stranger.” The voice was deep and gentle. “Do not fear. You are safe now.” Starsinger turned his head. An elf with a lined face and wise grey eyes sat cross-legged beside a small fire where a three-legged clay pot sent up curls of steam. “I am Tearsharer,” the elf said. “My daughter, Kestrel, drove off the humans who pursued you. She and her friends brought you here. We are the Hawkfriends, the elves of the Aerie. You have nothing to fear from us.”

“I thank you, Tearsharer. I am Starsinger,” he answered. “I come from the Enchanted Valley—” His voice caught. “—that was. My tribe is — dead. Humans—” He could go no further. Yesterday’s terror and his dream had reopened the wound of his loss.

Tearsharer looked at him with compassion. “You need not speak of these things yet. Later, perhaps, when you have finished healing, you may tell the tribe your story. For now — do you feel strong enough to sit up? Your body needs food as well as rest, and I have soup prepared.”

Tearsharer helped Starsinger into a sitting position and arranged the sleep furs around him to make a comfortable backrest. The younger elf still felt dizzy, but the healer, after touching gentle fingers to the back of his head, said the feeling was from hunger, not his injury. With one bowl of the hot, herb-flavored yellow broth inside him and a second following it from the clay vessel in his lap, Starsinger soon felt better. He spooned the last few drops into his mouth and was debating the politeness of asking for more when the light from the cave entrance suddenly lessened. A slight figure stood there; after a moment a young voice said, “Oh, he’s awake!”

“Yes,” said Tearsharer. “Come in, daughter, and meet our guest.”

So this was his rescuer. Starsinger looked at her curiously as she entered the cave. She was small, even for an elf, and compactly built. She wore a soft leather tunic that left her arms bare, close-fitting breeches, and trim boots decorated with beaded fringes. A knife of chipped stone hung at her belt. The sunlight teased ruddy glints from her long hair, tied at the nape of her neck with a bit of thong, as she turned to set down the basket she carried. Had this slip of a girl really driven off the hulking humans who sought his life? Starsinger could not imagine such a thing.

She came over to him and dropped down on her haunches, her blue-gray eyes darting over him with equal curiosity. “Hello,” she said. “My name’s Kestrel. How are you feeling? That was a nasty knock you got.”

“I feel much better, thanks to you and your father. I am called Starsinger.” He could contain his curiosity no longer. “How did you manage to drive off those humans? They seemed—” He shuddered. “—very ferocious.”

Kestrel laughed. “Oh, a couple of arrows cooled their fires. I didn’t even have to kill any, praise the High Ones. They know they’re not supposed to come that far up the mountain. But if they happen on a lone elf in their own territory, sometimes they forget. How did you—” She broke off, glanced at her father over her shoulder, then started a different question. “What was in that bundle of yours? I was surprised you didn’t ditch it.”

Starsinger sat up so suddenly that the bowl tumbled from his lap. “My harp! Where is it? Is it safe?” He half-rose, looking anxiously from side to side.

Kestrel extended a hand to restrain him. “Calm down. It’s over in the corner here. I’ll get it.” She rose and fetched the wrapped bundle. “You can see for yourself if it’s all right. Your — harp, you said? What’s a harp?”

Starsinger did not answer immediately. He was quickly but carefully untying the thongs and undoing the leather and oiled cloth that protected his precious instrument. He breathed a sigh of relief as the last of the wrappings came away. It was unharmed. He caressed the red-brown wood lovingly as he took it up and rested it against his shoulder. “It’s an instrument,” he said. “It makes music. Listen.” His fingers danced over the shiny black strings, calling forth a fragment of lively melody. He followed it with a few chords and a sweeping glissando from bottom to top. Then he laid his hand gently across the vibrating strings to silence them. “It’s a little out of tune,” he commented.

“Oh-h-h … how beautiful!” Kestrel breathed. “Cragspanner has a pipe he plays once in a while and he’s teaching Mist, but I’ve never heard anything like that. And such lovely wood!” She reached out a hesitant finger to stroke it. “So smooth! Whoever carved it must be skilled indeed.”

“It wasn’t carved,” Starsinger said quietly. “It was made for me by a — friend, a treeshaper. She drew it gently from a limb of the great Mother Tree and strung it with strings made from her own hair. When I played it, it was as if she sang with me, even when we weren’t together. And now—” Tears streaked his face. “Now it is all I have left of her. All I have left…” He felt a vast emptiness open up around him. His frail body, curled around the harp, seemed impossibly tiny and immeasurably alone. “All I have…” As blackness closed around him, fingers touched his temples and a deep voice murmured **Sleep.** He passed into forgetful silence.

 

Several days passed before Tearsharer pronounced his guest strong enough, in body and mind, to be formally presented to the tribe and to tell his story. In that time, of course, he met most of the Hawkfriends informally, for few could resist the novelty of a stranger among them. That being so, Starsinger could put names to most of the faces grouped around the fire on the Council Ledge, as the Hawkfriends called the broad stone shelf, rimmed with logs and occasional shaped stone seats, that was the Aerie’s gathering place.

He sat beside the chieftess, Windspeaker, who he had learned was Tearsharer’s sister. The healer was on his other side, accompanied by his lifemate, Sureflight. The practical huntress was repairing the fletching on some damaged arrows as she listened. Kestrel sat beside her, talking quietly with Mist, a thin, large-eyed youth. Beyond Mist were two older elves. Starsinger recognized Moonrill, with her cascade of silver hair, who had visited and shown great interest in the woven material of his clothing; so he guessed the male elf with her must be her lifemate, Cragspanner. He had already heard stories of Cragspanner’s climbing. The mountaineer’s weathered face had a carven look, as if over the years he had become kin to the rocks he loved.

The young elf-woman dressed in red, with the wild mane of dark hair, was Galedancer. She was talking animatedly with two other maidens who contrasted almost comically with each other. Thorngrace was all chiseled angles, with a faintly disdainful expression, while Merrybreeze was all smiles and round, rosy cheeks. Dainty, cloud-haired Snowlight listened alternately to them and to the remarks of her lovemate, the young rockshaper Firehand, who sat with his arm around her slim shoulders. Next to them were Firehand’s parents, cheerful Sweetnut and hearty Stonerede, the tribe’s senior rockshaper. At a little distance from them Thunderstone sprawled, seemingly at ease, though he cast occasional smoldering glances in Galedancer’s direction. His famous war-hammer, said to have fallen from the sky, had been left at home for once.

A younger couple, Suntress and Deersleap, sat with their young children. Tiny Mote nestled half-asleep against his mother, while little Magpie sat on her father’s lap, chattering away despite periodic efforts by both parents to shush her. Starsinger wasn’t sure of the names of the two young male elves next to them. One was Longeye and the other Featherfoot, but he couldn’t recall which was which. The stout, grinning elf was Chipper the toolwright, and completing the circle at Windspeaker’s side was her clever, restless son, Dodger.

They were a small tribe, Starsinger mused — less than half the size of the elfin community of the Enchanted Valley — and they were primitive by his standards. From their exclamations over his scant possessions (besides his harp, little more than the clothes on his back) and from his few days’ observation, he had learned they knew nothing of farming, did not weave, and had no metals at all — though Firehand, after examining the newcomer’s gold belt buckle, had declared that it “felt” rather like Thunderstone’s hammer and that with practice he might be able to shape such stuff. Rockshaping seemed to be one of the few magical powers they possessed, along with healing, the floating ability which they all appeared to have in some measure, and rather more sending than Starsinger was used to. They seemed tougher than his own folk. Doubtless their years of battling with the humans for territory and with the land itself for survival had made them that way. Still, they were elves, children of the High Ones, and a blessing beyond hope to a desperate wanderer who had lost nearly all of his former life. That loss, that grief, he must steel himself to relate this night.

Beside him Windspeaker rose to her feet and gazed around the circle of elves. A pair of small white wings adorning the browband that was the symbol of her office, and heavy reddish hair only partly confined in two thick braids framing her gaunt face, leaving most to hang down her back well past her waist, lent weight and presence to the gesture. The gathered elves fell silent, even irrepressible little Magpie.

“Hawkfriends, elves of the Aerie,” the chieftess began, her clear, strong voice betraying none of the years that showed in her face. “Among us on this night is a newcomer — an elf like ourselves and a child of the High Ones, but born into another tribe. No like event has occurred in so many turns of the seasons that only our earliest legends speak of any elves other than ourselves and our ancient parents. Therefore, though the tale he tells may be a sorrowful one, I take it as a sign of hope that our small tribe is not alone in this world, and that one day all the lost children of the High Ones shall come together in joy, as the Dreamer foretold.

“Hawkfriends, I present to you Starsinger of the Enchanted Valley. Let him receive the welcome of all, and attention to his tale.” She turned to the singer. He got up from his stone seat, propping one foot on it so that he could rest the harp on his knee. All eyes were on him as he struck the strings. The familiar sound supported him as he raised his voice before an unfamiliar audience.

“Long ago, beyond the count of years or reach of memory, the High Ones came into this world. The reason for their coming, what dream led them or nightmare drove them, no tale tells. From their dwellings of beauty and light they came, to find darkness, danger and death. The great cold came down upon them and they fled far and wide, scattering as the leaves do before the winter wind.” This was the traditional beginning of all tales in the Enchanted Valley. Starsinger’s voice rang clear and sure as he chanted the well-known phrases. His hands drew the accompanying chords from his harp: high and bright for the High Ones, deep and sad for their downfall, wild and whirling for their dispersion.

“Down the perilous paths of the world a small band traveled. Eight and one they were, and the one was Melié. She it was who guided them, who led them through all dangers, and who at last discovered the Valley with its bright river, its fertile fields and cool woods. Then the elves were glad, and ceased their wandering. They wove their houses amid the green branches, and so rested.” A melody of peace rippled from the harpstrings, then dropped suddenly into a minor key.

“But the world waited outside. Soon foes beset the dwellers in the Valley — wild beasts and monsters, and the fierce humans with their clubs and spears. The peace of the Valley was shattered by cries and weeping.” The harp sobbed, though the singer’s voice remained steady.

“Then Melié bethought herself of how her folk might be saved. Going up alone to the heights of the tallest of trees, she gazed out over the whole Valley and knew it, stock and stone, root and branch, leaf and flower, wind and water. Knowing it, she called upon its power and joined it with her own. A ring of enchantment she wove about it, a wall of mist and illusion, so that none might enter, but would be turned away by images of terror or lost in the tangled paths of phantasm. All this she did, and when it was done she let her body fall away. Her spirit passed into the living tree, from there to watch over her people for—” Starsinger’s voice faltered for the first time. The traditional word here was “forever,” but that was true no longer. He strummed a few quick chords and plunged on. “—for eights and eights-of-eights of years uncounted. Those with special gifts of sending or of treeshaping, when they touched the great Mother Tree and listened to its song, could hear still the spirit and voice of Melié within; and all could see that the tree did neither wither nor die, nor did its leaves fall in the winter. It remained fresh and green through every change of the seasons. Under its spreading branches the elves throve and prospered, living in peace and joy.”

This was where the First of Tales, the Tale of Melié, usually ended, with a fine major crescendo. But this time the story would have a new and darker ending. Starsinger forced his fingers into an unaccustomed pattern, sounding minor chords instead, and modulated into a softly keening melody.

“There came a day in the early autumn of the year when Willowind the Treeshaper came to the Mother Tree in the evening, as was her custom. Her heart was troubled; of late the spirit of Melié had spoken to her of new and disturbing things, of seeking voices on the wind and of a far call. She pressed herself against the great, smooth trunk, for she thought to find solace in the wise words of Melié. She found instead an emptiness from which her spirit recoiled. Again she sought and again, sending her mind deeper and deeper into the tree, but to no avail. The essence of Melié had fled.

“Many of the dwellers in the Enchanted Valley refused to believe at first that their foremother and protectress had gone from the tree. But that autumn the leaves of the Mother Tree turned brown and fell, and they knew that the Treeshaper spoke truth. All through the winter their wailing sounded in the bare branches, and budding spring brought no comfort. Neither bud nor leaf appeared again on the ancient limbs.”

The singer’s voice rose suddenly in rhythmed anguish. “Why should Melié leave her children? Why, O High Ones? What could call her far away from home and people? Healer, shaper knew no answer.” Starsinger’s voice paused. The sad melody of the harp continued the chanted rhythm, which suddenly grew quicker, the melody more strident.

“The end was near, though we knew it not. I wandered far up the winding river, seeking lost peace far from others. A burning scream in my mind woke me, sent me running, racing, plunging, through the woods no more enchanted.” There was refuge in the rhythm. Concentrating on it kept his mind away from the pain. “Too late I came. The trees were burning, bodies lay broken in field and bower. Nightmare shapes roamed through the wreckage, hulking humans bloody-handed. Red the blood and red the burning, grey the dawn that followed after.” He could not, after all, keep tears from his eyes, but he fought to keep his throat clear. His mind focused completely on the tale, he did not see that tears lay on many faces.

“All was dead, destroyed and withered. I alone was left to wander, always up the winding river, seeking something, seeking nothing, till at last the humans found me, and I fled in hopeless terror. To the brink of death I stumbled, then beyond all hope — was rescued.” From somewhere in forgotten depths came a smile, shyly, hesitantly, and that was for Kestrel. The harp that had sung so long in lamenting measures modulated again briefly into major chords before it fell silent. “And from there my rescuer should tell the tale,” Starsinger concluded in a normal tone of voice, “for I was in no state to observe events at the time.” He rubbed the back of his head and the gesture broke the rapt mood. Pent-up breath was released in long sighs, cramped limbs were shifted, and soft exclamations of wonder rippled among the seated elves.

“Well! That was a tale and a half,” old Stonerede declared loudly. “In all my eights of years I never heard its like. Where did you learn to spell like that, young one?”

“It is what I do,” Starsinger replied, “what a singer does — preserves the tales of the old times and makes new tales and songs when they are needed.” He made a shaping gesture with his free hand. “You shape stone, not so? I shape words and music. Have you no such  
singers?” He looked around the circle.

“We have our tales,” Tearsharer replied, “legends passed down from one generation to another, but no special keepers of lore. I sometimes think our oldest stories are missing pieces, like an old headdress whose beads have fallen away one by one. Trained singers might slow or prevent such decay. I do not know.”

“Be that as it may,” Windspeaker said, “you are welcome among us, Starsinger Tale-shaper, as I think all will agree.” The cry of assent was universal; a high, clear yell like the victory scream of a hawk burst from every throat. Starsinger clutched his harp and looked around the circle with wide, startled eyes.

Kestrel laughed. “We’ll have to teach you the Cry,” she said. “You’re not really a Hawkfriend until you learn it.” She threw back her head and gave forth the shrill scream again.

“A dance! A dance!” Galedancer cried, springing up. “My legs are stiff from sitting so long. Give us the Hawks’ Ring, Cragspanner.” Most of the younger elves quickly rose at this suggestion. While Cragspanner prepared his bone flute, they formed themselves into a ring around the fire. Even Suntress and Deersleap were drawn into the circle, with assurances from Sweetnut that she’d see to the children.

Cragspanner began to play a high, keening melody, neither major nor minor but a mode entirely different, repeating the same few notes over and over in constantly shifting patterns. After a few moments Mist joined in with a reed pipe, weaving a weird counterpoint to his father’s line.

The dancers circled slowly at first, with deliberate, stamping steps, their arms alternately rising and falling in smooth, graceful gestures. Gradually the music quickened and became louder, and the dance grew wilder. Leaping feet, swirls of beaded fringes from swinging hips, flying arms, billowing hair, passed before Starsinger’s eyes in dizzy succession, faster and faster till it was a blur, a single whirlwind. Then the music cut off abruptly and the dancers froze, facing inward. Cragspanner began a different tune. Kestrel darted out of the circle to drag Mist into it, despite the youth’s feeble protests. Once more the ring of dancers circled slowly, but now with an expectant air. They beat time with claps as well as stamps. Outside the ring the watchers were clapping too, or slapping their thighs. Stonerede thumped the ground with a horny hand.

In a red flash Galedancer leaped high into the air above the center of the ring, arms outstretched. She hung poised for a moment above the central fire, then came down at the opposite side of the circle. The dancers shouted.

“Hey- _yah_!”

Thunderstone was next in the circle and he too cleared the fire in one prodigious bound, earning a shout of approbation from his fellows. One by one dancers made their leaps, though Starsinger noticed that not all attempted the feat when their turn came. Firehand did not try, but passed his turn on to Snowlight, who rose into the air as if weightless and hung there for a whole breath before floating down.

The length of time a dancer could remain poised at the top of the leap seemed at least as important as the height of the leap itself. Galedancer, Mist, Snowlight and Kestrel were particularly good at this. Thunderstone leapt vigorously but without much lift, and while Deersleap attained greater heights than anyone else, he barely paused at the highest point. Though all the leapers were cheered with loud “Hey- _yah_ ”s, the most enthusiastic shouts were reserved for the best performers. The spirits of all the tribe were caught up in the dance. Little Mote was so excited that he floated several feet into the air before he was yanked down by his sister.

One by one exhausted dancers dropped out of the contest. Some, like Suntress, retired early into the outer ring, after a single leap or perhaps two, to circle slowly and encourage those who continued with claps and shouts. Soon only a hardy few remained. Thunderstone, though clearly outclassed, only gave up after a leap brought him down with one foot inches from the fire. Dodger dropped out at the same time, though Starsinger thought it was more to keep his friend company than because he had run out of energy. That left Galedancer, Kestrel, Mist and Snowlight, and the latter two soon reached the limits of their endurance as well.

The two remaining dancers leaped higher and higher above the dying flames. Kestrel’s hair had come loose from its binding and floated around her like an echo of the fire. Galedancer’s was a stormcloud that seemed to have a life of its own. Again and again they leaped. Their limbs shone with sweat, but they seemed tireless.

All at once both dancers rose into the air from opposite sides of the circle. Above the embers they joined hands briefly, then separated and came to earth for the final time. Kestrel ran over to her taller friend and they collapsed in each other’s arms, laughing in gasps. With a final “HEY- _YAH_!” the circle dissolved into groups of laughing, talking elves.

The spectacle of the Hawk’ Ring dance had evoked mixed emotions in Starsinger. On the one hand he found it primitive, even barbaric, this contest of powers punctuated by driving rhythms and weird, droning melodies. Yet the vigor and grace of the performers, the shared rapture of watchers and dancers, were strangely attractive, the swirl and leap of bodies arousing.

Kestrel ran over and dropped to her knees in front of him. Her face and arms glistened and strands of tangled hair clung to her bare shoulders. “Oh, I’m blown! I don’t often match Galedancer like that,” she told him exultantly between pants. “The High Ones were with me tonight. Did you like it?”

Starsinger opened his mouth to speak, but the words never emerged. At that moment their eyes met, blue-grey and leaf-green, and reality reeled.

For Starsinger it was as if a storm swirled him up, and a winged wind stooped from an immense height upon his defenseless soul.

**Kee!** it cried, high and clear and young. And his soul sighed, as it was seized and borne away:

**Elh…**

And then he was back in his own body again, staring into Kestrel’s flushed face. Her eyes were wide with astonishment, one hand at her mouth. Slowly she reached out to touch his face. Something in him reached out to touch her too ( _Kee! Kee!_ ), but then another, stronger emotion welled up in him.

She had his soul name. She, this wild barbarian girl, had snatched in a breath’s time the treasure that Willowind was never able to find in all the long years they had loved. With a choked cry he flung himself away from her. Stumbling to his feet, he fled into the darkness, the black-strung harp clutched to his breast.

 

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, child. Have patience. He’ll come round.” Moonrill’s deft fingers alternately threaded beads on a twisted strand of bark fiber and knotted the string between them as she spoke. It was the morning after the gathering on the Council Ledge. Moonrill usually chose mornings for her beadwork, for that was when her east-facing cave received the best light. Her workspace was a large flat rock just outside the cave mouth, before which she knelt, selecting beads one by one from clay dishes. On the other side of the ledge that formed the lip of the cave, Kestrel sat with her arms around her bent knees, her chin resting on them. She looked even smaller than usual. Mist sat near her, close enough to touch her but not doing so.

It wasn’t unusual for Kestrel to visit while Moonrill worked. The task did not impede the elf woman’s conversation. Watching it was monotonous enough to be relaxing and not enough so to be boring. But it didn’t seem to relax Kestrel very much this morning.

“Remember, he’s recently had a terrible shock,” Moonrill went on. “His whole tribe slaughtered, and narrowly escaping death himself on top of that. It’s no wonder Recognition confuses him. Think of finding a mountain-cat in the tree you just climbed to get away from a bear.”

“Maybe his tribe didn’t have Recognition. Did you ever think of that?” Mist put in. “From his story they don’t seem to have been very much like us. He may not know _what’s_ going on!”

“Of course they had Recognition, they must have. They wouldn’t be elves otherwise,” Moonrill stated.

“He knew,” Kestrel confirmed. “He knew what had happened. I felt it.” It had been like cool water rushing into her mind, flowing down through the crevices to where her soul lay. Its echo still murmured within her: _Elh… Elh…_ “But I might just as well have been a mountain-cat. He doesn’t like me,” she finished miserably.

Moonrill chuckled. “I didn’t like Cragspanner at first, either. I thought he was the most dour, close-mouthed, stone-assed elf in the whole tribe. Besides the fact he was always off somewhere climbing a mountain. ‘He’s never _here_!’ I used to shriek at my mother. ‘How are we supposed to produce a child if he’s never _here_?’ We worked it out eventually.” Her mouth curved into a reminiscent smile.

“It was more than that,” Kestrel insisted. Her words came haltingly as she tried to explain something for which there were no words. “We were … together, one, and then all of a sudden he … ripped himself away, as if he was revolted. As if I were a — a — _human_ or something.”

“Come, child, I think you’re exaggerating. Or you misinterpreted something. Recognition is unsettling, and it can produce strange reactions. Give the lad a chance to sort out his feelings. He’ll come round in time. He’ll have to.”

Kestrel did not look convinced, but she did not try to argue. “I hope so,” was all she said.

** _I_ don’t think you’re revolting,** Mist told her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

She leaned against him and tried to relax her tense body. **Thanks, Mist. That helps, really.**

**But not enough,** he sent regretfully. **Still, we can try.**

Moonrill looked after them as they disappeared into the cave. “Poor eyases,” she said to herself, selecting a blue bead. “Recognition isn’t always easy. But it will work out. All that’s needed is time.”

 

On the second evening after the council, Starsinger made his way carefully toward Tearsharer’s cave. The narrow, steep tracks of the Aerie gave him trouble, especially since he could not float or lighten his feet the way the Hawkfriends could, but he was learning to manage them. He had spent most of the day listening to Thunderstone and Firehand tell the story of Thunderstone’s hammer and trying to make a tale-song out of it. He hadn’t had much success. It was hard for him to concentrate on composing. Much of the time had really been spent playing aimless melodies to himself on the harp.

When he reached Tearsharer’s cave he found the healer waiting for him with a large bundle of sleep furs. “I have arranged for you to move into other sleeping quarters,” Tearsharer said. “Featherfoot and Longeye have agreed to host you in their cave.” He frowned at Starsinger’s look of surprise. “I will not have my daughter driven from her nest, or her sleep disturbed any more than it need be.” There was a hint of anger in the deep voice. “If you cannot bring yourself to accept Recognition—” The anger faded, replaced by concern. “It is as much for your sake as for hers. Kestrel is strong and healthy. You have wandered far with little food or rest, and now you ask your body to endure this additional strain. Why?”

Starsinger dropped his eyes to avoid meeting the healer’s searching grey ones. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered weakly.

“I think it is you who do not understand. Do you not know what Recognition is? It is an imperative, set in us from the time of the High Ones to ensure the furtherance of our race. It cannot be long denied, any more than hunger or thirst can, without doing serious harm. If you continue as you are you may die. Is this joining that uncongenial to you?”

“In the Enchanted Valley,” Starsinger replied quietly, but not without a trace of anger of his own, “we did not join together at the whim of blind instinct. We were intelligent, speaking creatures, not animals, and we came together in love, not hunger.”

Tearsharer shook his head. “If you truly believed that — if your tribe did set themselves so apart from the natural world as that, though your tale makes it hard for me to believe it of them — then they had cut themselves off at the roots and were dead without knowing it, before ever the humans came. We are animals, lad, and should be proud of the fact. I hope you can marvel one day at the mating flights of the falcons who share these crags with us. There is no more magnificent sight under the sun. And they too mate for life.” He paused, then, when he received no answer from Starsinger, sighed deeply and hefted the bundle of furs.

As Starsinger followed him out of the cave, he thought, _And what of the falcon whose mate falls to the hunter’s arrow?_ He stroked the harpstrings softly.

 

Slate-grey clouds raced and roiled across the evening sky.

“Going to be a big blow tonight.” Galedancer stood on the Council Ledge with Thunderstone and Dodger, gazing up at the sky with an anticipatory gleam in her eye. “Stormdance, anyone?”

“I’m for it!” Thunderstone said eagerly.

“So’m I,” Dodger agreed. “Who else can we get?”

Two figures approached the ledge along one of the narrow paths. They stepped so lightly their feet barely touched it. **Kestrel? Mist? You two up for a stormdance?** Galedancer sent.

Kestrel was tempted. To ride the shrieking winds, feel the clean rain dash against her face, smell the tang of skyfire in the air, taste the thrill of swoop and glide, gust and buffet — it might free her mind, for a little while at least, from the insistent murmur that haunted it. To lose herself in the storm’s fury, blot out her own passions in its blind vigor…

**Don’t be a fool, Kestrel,** Mist sent. **Stormdancing’s risky enough as it is. In your condition you wouldn’t last a hand of breaths up there.** Kestrel sighed, but she knew her friend was right.

**Not tonight, Galedancer,** she sent regretfully. **My reflexes aren’t up to it. I’ll just watch you,** she added a little forlornly.

**What? This from the co-champion Hawk Dancer of the Aerie?** Galedancer stepped closer and peered at Kestrel. She was shocked by her friend’s drawn, hollow-eyed look. “Stars above, you look awful! Do you mean to say that washed-out little rabbit of a singer _still_ hasn’t — skyfire, what’s he waiting for? For the lost dwelling of the High Ones to drop down from the clouds booming, ‘Take her, you fool!’?”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Doesn’t _like_ you?” That was Dodger, indignant. “Owl pellets, Kestrel, you saved his life! Now he’s got the nerve to say he doesn’t like you? I might just have a thing or two to say to him about that!”

“It’s not his fault,” Kestrel protested weakly. “And he didn’t actually say it, he—”

“Well then, face him with it. Make him speak up. He has no right to leave you dangling like this.” Galedancer was positive.

“She’s right, Kestrel,” Mist agreed. “You should talk to him. I know Moonrill said to wait, but you can’t go on like this. You have to have it out with him.”

“I know. I will — tomorrow.”

**That’s the spirit.** Galedancer added a vivid image of a falcon stooping on a bewildered-looking wood pigeon. **Go get him!**

 

The thunderstorm was a satisfyingly violent one. By dawn it was over, leaving a clear, pale blue sky and air so cool and fresh that it seemed newly come from the upper regions, as yet unbreathed by any living thing. It was a day for new beginnings, Kestrel thought as she set out to find Starsinger.

She heard him before she saw him. The singing came from a stand of pines not far from the spring where the stream was born — the stream she’d hauled him from days ago. Harp music blended with the voice.

 _“Sing me a song, O sweetest shaper  
Of wind in willow-withy branches.  
Let thy lissome limbs enlace me,  
The shadows of thy locks enfold me  
Like the shade of leaves unfallen.  
Sweet thy fruit and fair thy flower,  
And thy breast my best-loved bower._

While he sang she crept close unseen and watched him. She found herself keenly, painfully aware of him: the fine hair like mingled moon and sunlight, curled a little at the ends; the well-shaped curve of the ear; the delicate arched brows above half-closed green eyes; the small, straight nose and sensitive mouth. She saw with preternatural clarity the hollow at the base of his throat, sensed the lines of the slim body under the travel-stained green garments. And especially, oh most especially, the slender fingers moving over the harpstrings, graceful and strong. But so pale they were on the ebon strings, the strings they caressed so lovingly.

The song ended. She stepped out of the trees to confront him. “It’s her, isn’t it?” she said. “The treeshaper who made the harp for you. She was your lovemate, and you can’t forget her.”

“Yes.” If he was startled by her appearance he showed no sign of it. “Do you see now why I can’t love you?”

She dropped to her knees beside him, as she had after the dance. “Starsinger — Elh—” He flinched. “—I’m not asking you to love me. I don’t need you to love me. All I need, all we need is to do what must be done.” Bitterness edged her voice. “I don’t care if you can’t give me your heart. All I ask is your body, for a little while.”

“You already have more than that, and you know it,” he flung back. _Barbarian! Thief!_ “What I was never able to give, you took. Never! Do you understand?” His knuckles were white on the red-brown wood of the harp. “What right have you to find what she could not?”

“Right? What has right got to do with it? Of course you never Recognized her, you fool. It can only happen as the High Ones choose, and you’re Recognized to me, me! High Ones help us both, I wish she _were_ alive. I could deal with a living rival, but a dead one’s beyond my reach!”

“If Willowind were alive, you’d never dare—”

“You’d just see what I’d dare! But she’s not alive, she’s dead, _dead, DEAD_ — and you’d sacrifice us both to appease her spirit, like the humans piling carcasses on a grave! What does it take to cut you loose from the past? It’s dead, I tell you! DEAD!”

Faster than the eye could follow she snatched her stone knife from her belt and slashed at the black-strung harp. The finely knapped edge raked across the strings, snapping several and raising a shrieking discord from the rest. Starsinger cried out as if he had been stabbed, while Kestrel froze, suddenly horrified. “Oh High Ones,” she breathed in a ragged, barely audible whisper, “what have I done? High Ones help us both, what have I done?” She lurched to her feet and fled the grove, racing away up the mountain.

 

Mist found Starsinger still in the same spot hours later, trying to repair the damaged harp. He had tied the broken strings together, but the instrument would no longer tune properly. His searching fingers found only discords. Yet they kept restlessly exploring until a hand reached out and muffled the strings. “Starsinger. Kestrel told me what happened. Do you want to talk about it?” Starsinger let his hands fall away from the harpstrings, but he did not speak. After a moment Mist continued anyway.

“I know. You feel like you’ve betrayed your lovemate by Recognizing somebody else. But that’s not the way love works, or how Recognition works. One doesn’t cancel out the other. Look, Kestrel is my friend. We love each other. I know that’s not going to change just because she’s Recognized to you. Nobody’s asking you to forget Willowind, either. She’ll always live in your memory. But think — would she want _you_ to live in _her_ memory? Would the treeshaper you loved want you to deny the possibility of new life by constantly yearning after what’s dead? Because that’s what Recognition means — new life. New life for you, and for all your tribe through you. Isn’t that a better memorial than a broken harp?”

Starsinger still did not answer. Finally Mist got up. “Well, think about it,” he said as he left the grove.

Starsinger sat silent as the shadows of the trees lengthened. He no longer tried to play, but let memories run through his mind. Willowind … treeshaper… He remembered her lithe grace, the scent of her hair (like night, like the shadows of trees), her midnight blue eyes with stars in them… He remembered her hands gently stroking a branch, coaxing it to bend little by little the way she wanted it to go, always careful not to harm the tree. He remembered, suddenly and vividly, the tender, loving expression on her face as she touched — ever so lightly, with the tip of one finger — a tiny emerging leaf. New life…

No, Willowind would not want him to deny new life.

He remembered two dancers, poised at the top of their leap, joining hands — all at once rivals no longer, but friends.

**Elh.**

She stood a little way from him. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders; it flamed in the last light of the sun. She held her hands out in front of her, palms up.

**Kee.**

“I’m sorry for what I did,” she said aloud. “I tried—” She stepped closer and knelt in front of him. Across her palms lay a handful of harpstrings, finely braided. But these strings were not black; they were sunset-red. “I hope they’ll work. I’ve never done harpstrings before, only bowstrings. I—”

He silenced her with a touch. One by one he removed the broken strings and carefully attached the new ones in their place. She waited as he adjusted the tuning pegs, a look of concentration stilling his features. Then he ran his finger up the line of strings, black and red, in a sweeping glissando. His whole face lightened in a smile of pure joy. His fingers danced an ecstatic cadenza, then modulated into the eerie tune of the Hawks’ Ring. A vision floated in his mind’s eye, of the poised dancers with joined hands. The dark one drifted down to the far side of the fire and was gone. Kestrel alit before him, and ran toward him…

After a little while the harp music from the grove stopped.

THE END


End file.
